


Candy for Strangers

by sassyjumper



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Halloween, M/M, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 01:27:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassyjumper/pseuds/sassyjumper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson convinces House to celebrate Halloween. It doesn't go well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Candy for Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the Sick Wilson Halloween challenge on LJ.

 

 

 

Wilson, much to House’s horror, seemed determined to celebrate Halloween this year.

First, he’d tried to get House to go to the hospital costume party by offering to perform any sex act of House’s choosing.

“That’s a noble gesture,” House had acknowledged. “But no thanks.”

At Wilson’s hurt expression he’d added, “I can get that out of you anyway…You’re kind of a slut.”

Wilson had tried to look offended, but couldn’t completely fight off a small, sheepish smile.

Next, Wilson had angled for a return trip to the farm where they’d gone apple-picking a month before—but this time they’d get pumpkins, he said. He was clearly hoping to take advantage of House’s fond memory of their risky apple-orchard sex.

“We can’t go back there,” House had replied, trying to look scandalized. “Farmer Bob totally suspected something when we were paying for the apples. Probably because of the curious state of your hair. And your dopey sex glow.”

Wilson had rejected the notion, but he also let go of the pumpkin plan with minimal argument.

And now House had caught Wilson hunkered down in the bedroom with his laptop, checking out a site called “Scary New Jersey”—which implied there was a non-scary New Jersey.

“Why, exactly, are you wasting your time with this?” House asked, stretching out on the bed next to Wilson. “My lunch won’t make itself, you know.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re actually aware of that,” Wilson said, looking at House pointedly. Then he sighed. “I’m…checking to see if there are any disabled-friendly haunted houses near Princeton.”

“Just as an abstract question?”

“Nooo. Some haunted houses comply with the ADA, you know. It might be fun—”

“Right,” House cut him off. “Well-lit areas with ramps and wide hallways are truly frightening.”

Wilson sighed. “Fine.”

“Great.”

The accord lasted about five seconds.

“What about a haunted hayride?” Wilson asked hopefully, as if he’d just met House. “We’d only have to get you on the thing, and then you could lie back and do nothing.”

“Didn’t you say something like that last night?” House waggled his eyebrows. Wilson rolled his eyes.

“Oh, and the answer is no,” House added, just in case it needed to be said. “Not that I wouldn’t love to be publicly hauled onto a hay wagon, and then sit in other people’s urine for a couple hours.”

Wilson squinted. “And why do you think there’d be urine?”

_So naïve._ “It’s inevitable,” House said. “A certain number of morons at these things will always piss their pants…And they’re not disinfecting the hay between rides, buddy.”

Wilson looked thoughtful. “OK,” he agreed. “Hay ride is out…What about a haunted train ride? They have the Fright Train in East Windsor.”

“Fright Train? What, they put you in _really_ cramped seating?”

Wilson huffed in frustration. “You just can’t be open to anything, can you?”

“Oh, I’m open to things,” House assured, reaching to slide Wilson’s laptop away. “How open are you feeling right now?”

Wilson glared at him, but House knew it was a token gesture. Really, it was cute that Wilson still played hard-to-get sometimes. House put on his exaggerated puppy eyes and, predictably, Wilson’s lips started to twitch.

Just as predictably, he offered no resistance as House rolled on top of him and leaned in close to his ear. “How about a ride on Dr. House’s Love Train instead?”

Wilson looked disgusted. “God. I think that’s the worst thing you’ve ever said to me. And that is really saying something.”

House started laying kisses along Wilson’s jaw. “Stick with me,” he mumbled into Wilson’s skin. “I continually outdo myself.”

 

 

*******

 

 

“No. No way.” House said upon entering the kitchen.

He’d just come home from a long day of haranguing his team and his patient’s parents, hoping to be greeted by the sight of Wilson cooking—preferably wearing nothing but an apron.

Instead, House found him fully clothed and pulling a stash of mini candy bars, Tootsie rolls and candy corn from his grocery bags.

“I have never accepted Halloween beggars,” House declared. “And I’m not starting now just because you moved in.”

Wilson stopped his unpacking and put his hands on his hips. “House, what’s the big deal? Your neighbors already let the trick-or-treaters into the building.”

It was true. Every year, his neighbors propped the front door open, and put up decorations and a sign welcoming candy-seekers to knock on their doors. And every year, House followed an honored tradition of not being home.

“My idiot neighbors can do whatever they want,” he informed Wilson. “I don’t cater to the Princeton Country Club set dragging their spoiled brats around, looking for hand-outs.”

Wilson shook his head. “They’re just little kids trying to enjoy Halloween,” he said, frowning. House noticed a brief flash of hurt, and something else, in Wilson’s eyes.

_Interesting._

But then it was gone, as Wilson effortlessly glided into tactical mode. His face softened and he looked at House from under his lashes. “C’mon, you don’t even have to do anything,” he wheedled. “I’ll answer the door and hand out the candy.”

House turned and limped to the couch. He sat down heavily, as Wilson followed him into the living room.

“Right,” House said. “I don’t have to do anything. I was _going_ to watch _Big Trouble in Little Vagina_ tomorrow night. I suppose now you won’t let me.”

Wilson cringed. “Uh, I think I would’ve vetoed that one anyway.”

“Because it objectifies you ladies? Think again,” House said, turning on the TV. “It’s the men who end up looking bad in that film. It’s almost a feminist treatise.”

Wilson crossed his arms. “Yes. Gloria Steinem wrote the screenplay.”

Then he sat down next to House and looked at him earnestly. “Listen, I just want to acknowledge the existence of a holiday. It’s, you know, our first one as…this.”

Wilson looked away in embarrassment. House smirked. “Dude, it’s barely a holiday. It’s an homage to the Hershey family.”

When Wilson kept his eyes down, though, House realized that this actually mattered to him.

“Why do you care so much?”

Wilson sighed. “Seriously? Do you have to analyze everything?”

“Uh, yeah.”

Wilson pressed his lips together before answering. “It’s just…I know it’s stupid, but I’ve never really celebrated Halloween.”

House couldn’t quite buy that. “Come on. You must’ve dressed up when you were a kid. I can totally see you wanting to be a tiny cop, or a firefighter…or an insurance agent.”

Wilson smiled wanly and shook his head. “No. I mean, I remember a few years when my parents took us to some relatives’ houses.” He glanced at House. “They were always afraid of poisoned candy and booby-trapped apples.

“And then Danny got…He could get freaked out around strangers sometimes. And on Halloween, when everyone was running around in costumes, it…Anyway, we stopped trick-or-tricking, or letting trick-or-treaters into the house.”

House mulled that over. He’d never had much of a traditional Halloween when he was a kid, either. His father’s base would sometimes have a party for the families, but that was it. It wasn’t something he ever thought about, though.

He turned to Wilson. “But then when you got older you must’ve…”

Wilson shrugged. “When I was in high school, Halloween always fell on a school night, and my parents wouldn’t let me go out.” He paused and looked at House, as if waiting to be mocked.

That was, admittedly, House’s first instinct. But this time he listened to the inner voice telling him to hold his tongue. So Wilson went on, “After that, I never really had time, I guess. Or I just got used to ignoring the day.”

“What about when you were living with your many wives?”

Wilson smirked. “Well, if I was even home, they’d insist on going out to dinner to miss the trick-or-treaters…None of them were all that fond of kids.”

House nodded. “You’ve gotta respect that.”

Wilson looked at him in that annoying, “I know you” way. “You don’t hate kids, House,” he said. “You might hate their parents. And silly rituals. But…”

Wilson looked down and bit his lip so that his dimple came out in full force. House swore he did that shit on purpose.

He sighed dramatically. “Fine.”

Wilson’s eyes met his. “Really?”

House shrugged. “As holidays go, Halloween’s not bad. No platitudes about thankfulness or peace on earth…Actually, it acknowledges that the world is one messed up, scary place.” He looked at Wilson. “It’s a good starter holiday for us.”

Wilson gave him a small smile, and House felt himself returning it. Before things could get too sweet, he intervened.

“So, should we watch _Big Trouble_ tonight, then?”

Wilson’s smile turned saucy, and he slid closer to House to take the remote from him. “Why waste time watching naked freaks?” he asked as he straddled House’s lap.

“When we could be naked freaks?” House finished for him, reaching around to cup Wilson’s ass.

Wilson nodded, a seasonally appropriate wicked gleam in his eyes, before leaning in.

 

 

*******

 

 

“Have the little darlings started coming yet?” House asked, settling back in his Eames chair with his cell phone.

“Yeah, actually. A mermaid and an iPod were just here.”

House wrinkled his brow, trying to picture that. “An iPod? How is that scary? Was it playing Justin Bieber?”

“Maybe. I wouldn’t know.”

House could hear Wilson running the sink. “So what’s for dinner?”

A sigh. “Whatever you pick up on the way home. Is that gonna be sometime soon, by the way?”

House hesitated. He could lie and say he was stuck with his current case. Avoiding the whole night of take-out and screeching spawns would be easy, in fact. But he also knew Wilson wanted him home—for some sort of holiday-spirit-bonding-making-up-for-lost-childhood-experiences…thingy.

Fuck it.

“Uh, yeah,” House said. “Turns out Taub actually had an original thought. Patient’s got type 4 Krabbe disease.”

“Wow,” Wilson said. “That’s rare—Oh, that’s the door. So see you soon?”

“Yep.” Then a thought hit House out of the blue. “Hey, Wilson? Don’t open the door to any teenagers…I’m not feeding anyone over 4-foot-8.”

“That’s very specific. OK, gotta go.”

House hung up and sat for a few minutes. As time went on, he was growing increasingly surprised at his willingness to cater to Wilson’s whims. At this rate, House would be perched atop a haunted hay wagon come next Halloween.

He sighed.

“The pain I’m willing to endure for you,” House muttered out loud, before pushing to his feet, grabbing his stuff and heading out the door.

 

 

*******

 

 

“That was fast,” Wilson said, poking his head out from the kitchen after House walked in, take-out from Ling’s in hand.

“I didn’t wanna miss any more walking Apple products,” House explained, moving to set down his keys, but finding a jack-o-lantern in his usual key-dropping spot.

Then he noticed some scattered fake cobwebs and spiders, along with several plastic skeletons casually lounging about the living room—including one on House’s piano.

_God, what a dork._

Wilson came over to take the food from House, pecking him on the lips and offering an off-handed “Thanks” as he did.

House suddenly felt a bit overwhelmed by the domesticity of it all.

“You OK?” Wilson asked, eyeing him.

“Yeah,” House brushed him off, limping to the couch.

Wilson hesitated for a moment before heading for the kitchen. “Juanita from radiology was just here with her 5-year-old and 3-year-old,” House heard him say as he gathered plates and some proper chopsticks. “I didn’t even know she lived by us.”

“I don’t even know who you’re talking about.”

Wilson huffed a laugh. “Right. Of course.”

He was just returning with their food when House heard ominous giggling in the hallway. A second later there was a knock on the door. “Trick or treat!”

Wilson set the plates on the coffee table and scurried to grab his bowl of goodies. House hurried to get some Kung Pao chicken into his mouth, then angled in his seat so he could see the door.

Wilson opened it to reveal a trio of midgets, who all screamed “Trick or treat!” once again—just in case their intentions hadn’t been clear, House assumed.

“Oh, wow,” Wilson cooed. “Look at you guys. Come on in.”

A proud-looking mom and dad stepped in with their brood: a couple princess-types and a little boy dressed like one of those Angry Birds.

“House,” Wilson said. “Look at them. Don’t they look great?”

House stood up and regarded the invading family for a moment. “Welcome to our home,” he announced. “We’re a gay couple.”

Mom’s eyes widened, while Dad looked down and cleared his throat. The kids just turned to Wilson and held out their bags.

“Um, I…Happy Halloween,” Wilson said, beginning to quickly drop the loot into the kids’ bags.

“Wait a minute,” House interjected. “Don’t you sing, or dance, or eat fire? You can’t just hold a bag out and expect a reward.”

The parents glanced at Wilson then looked back at House. “Well,” the father said, chuckling uncomfortably, “they don’t have anything rehearsed.”

“Really?” House said, incredulous. “I thought that was part of the deal. Your kids put on a show, we give them insane amounts of sugar.”

“House,” Wilson said in a low, warning voice.

“Wilson,” House returned in the same tone. “I’m just setting some ground rules.”

“There’s no need for a show,” Wilson said, smiling tightly. He turned to the kids and finished his candy drop. “You guys look so awesome, you get candy just for that.”

“Oh, that’s a great lesson you’re teaching them,” House chastised.

The father laughed awkwardly again. “Well, thanks,” he said, ushering his family toward the doorway. “Happy Halloween.”

“Happy Halloween,” Wilson replied weakly before shutting the door.

He turned on House. “Was that necessary?”

“Yes.”

Wilson set his bowl down, frowning at House. “If you’re gonna do that every time—”

“You cannot possibly be surprised.”

“No,” Wilson said, putting his hands on his hips. “Try disappointed.”

_Ouch._ Really, that was uncalled for, House thought. Now he felt like a puppy that had just pissed on the living room carpet.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

Wilson blinked, obviously taken off guard by the direct apology. He dropped his arms by his sides. “OK,” he said, sounding unsure.

They both sat down on the couch and reached for their plates. Wilson paused to look at House. “Let’s just…have a nice evening, OK? The kids will stop coming soon.”

House detected a certain weariness in Wilson’s voice on that last line, and he suddenly had the sneaking suspicion that Dr. Holiday Spirit was growing tired of the Halloween munchkin parade.

_But he’ll never admit it, the stubborn bastard,_ House thought, trying not to smirk.

“Sure,” he replied obligingly. “Let’s have a nice evening.”

 

 

*******

 

 

“This is how you celebrate Halloween,” House declared.

He was stretched out on the couch, head in Wilson’s lap, watching _The Shining_ for possibly the 800th time—though he’d insisted they fast-forward through the boring first hour.

Wilson lightly massaged House’s scalp with his fingertips. “Yeah,” he agreed quietly.

“Really?” House said, genuinely surprised.

Wilson exhaled a short laugh. “Yeah,” he said again, with more certainty.

House smiled a little; the only light in the room was the glow of the TV, so it was safe.

Then a knock on the door wrecked his good mood. “No way,” House groaned. “It’s too late.”

“Lemme just see who’s there,” Wilson said, making House sit up and turning on a lamp. “Turn the murder and mayhem off.”

House rolled his eyes and ignored him.

Wilson went to the door and peered through the peephole. “Looks like a couple teenagers,” he murmured.

“Then don’t open it,” House said, an uneasy feeling rising in his gut.

“Oh. They have a little kid with them, though.” Wilson was opening the door before House could get another word out.

“Trick or treat,” a girl said brightly. House stood up to look at their visitors. The two chaperones were in their teens or possibly older, but didn’t have an aura of “parents.” The girl seemed to be dressed as an incarnation of Lady Gaga, while the guy was in a white suburban version of hip-hop fashion—a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.

“Um.” Wilson suddenly seemed hesitant. “It’s a little late.”

But the girl’s male companion was already pushing their little tyke through the door.

“Sorry,” the guy said. “We got a late start. This is our last stop. We live right around the corner.”

House watched them warily. The little kid, maybe 7 years old and wearing a cheap skeleton costume, had his head down, looking at his trick-or-treat bag. His two handlers had large bags of their own.

“I’ve never seen you around,” House said to the guy.

He laughed in response. “Well, I’m not usually wearing a costume.”

Wilson crouched in front of the child. “Cool costume,” he said. When the kid didn’t respond, Wilson added, “I just need to grab our candy, OK?”

That’s when House saw the girl shut the apartment door. “Wilson,” he said, starting to round the couch.

But it was too late, because the guy already had his knife out. And he was holding it toward Wilson.

“No candy,” the guy said.

The girl now had her knife out, too, and she held it toward House as he advanced. “Stop!” she barked. “Don’t move.”

She glanced nervously at her companion then returned her attention to House. “Should I check the place?” she asked the guy, not taking her eyes off of House.

_She’s half my size,_ House thought. He could get the knife away from her, couldn’t he? God, he wished he had his cane; but it was inconveniently propped against the piano.

Still, even if he managed to get the knife away from Bonnie, that left Clyde—who was one of those burly, well-fed young Americans. And his knife was pointed at Wilson.

House stood still and focused on Wilson. He’d remained frozen in front of the little kid for a few moments, but was now slowly straightening up, raising his hands in front of him in a placating gesture.

“Back off,” the guy ordered, holding the knife higher.

Wilson looked at the child and seemed reluctant to move away. “Back. Off,” the guy repeated.

Wilson took a couple steps back. “OK. Let’s all stay calm,” he said in his soothing oncologist voice. “You want our wallets?”

The guy nodded, darting his eyes back and forth between House and Wilson. He was clearly nervous now that his knife-wielding accomplice was making a sweep of the living room.

“Toss ’em right here on the floor,” he said. “Phones, too.”

“I found their phones,” the girl piped up from across the room. “There’s some pills, too. Hydrocodone—that’s like oxy, right?”

“That’s his pain medication,” Wilson said indignantly, as if these little shits didn’t realize someone might really need the prescription they were swiping.

“Wilson,” House said under his breath.

The guy barked a laugh. “Oh. OK, _Wilson._ I didn’t realize your boyfriend needed his meds.” He shook his head. “Stupid faggot.”

House bristled at the word, and he noticed Wilson’s face cloud over. But he felt fairly sure Wilson was smart enough not to react.

“Come on,” the girl urged, moving toward the unfortunate costume-clad child.

The guy waved his knife at Wilson. “Watches, too.”

Wilson moved to slip his off, but House just looked at his own. It was the watch Kutner gave him.

“Watch. Now,” the kid demanded, pointing the knife in House’s direction.

At that point, House decided he’d had enough. “This isn’t a Rolex, you idiot. It’s a piece of shit.”

“Toss it over here,” the guy insisted.

“House,” Wilson rasped, looking bewildered. But then he glanced at House’s wrist, and understanding dawned on his face.

Wilson started sidling closer to House. “Just take mine,” he said evenly. “It’s worth a lot more than his.”

But the guy seemed increasingly pissed by their defiance. “Give me the fucking watch,” he growled, waving the knife more emphatically.

Everyone seemed to freeze then, the only sound in the room coming from little Danny Torrance on the TV screen, shrieking, “Red rum! Red rum!”

House looked their home invader in the eyes. “Fuck off.”

In the space of two seconds, the guy’s expression turned to rage and he lunged at House. House heard Wilson shout, “No!” And then Wilson was stepping in front of him. House moved forward and reached out—not sure what he was doing but just knowing he had to do something.

It all happened too fast, though.

In an instant, House was almost knocked off his feet as Wilson staggered back into him, hunched forward and clutching his abdomen. House instinctively wrapped his arms around Wilson and tried to keep them both from falling. But he couldn’t.

House found himself on his ass, thigh screaming, with Wilson basically on his lap, still curled around his own middle.

He looked up to see their assailant just standing there, mouth open in shock. But it was his knife, covered to the hilt in blood, that House couldn’t look away from.

He felt a wave of nausea as his mind registered, too slowly, that it was Wilson’s blood. He heard Shelley Duvall’s screams from the TV.

House knew he had to move, but all he could do was stare at the bloodied knife and grip Wilson tighter. The girl started pulling on the guy’s arm—saying something, urging him toward the door. And then the door opened, and then they were gone.

“Here’s Johnny!” Jack Nicholson’s voice rang out from the TV. And House snapped back to reality.

“Wilson,” he croaked, throat dry. House managed to get him to roll onto his back, but Wilson kept his knees drawn up and his hands pressed against a widening pool of blood on his t-shirt.

His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling in shock. His mouth was agape, too, but only soft choking sounds were coming out.

“Breathe,” House said, slipping Wilson’s hands away so he could lift up his t-shirt and loosen his pants. “Through your nose—Inhale. Exhale.”

The knife had gone into the lower left quadrant of Wilson’s abdomen. House took his own over-shirt off and held it against the wound. The blood was dark and the flow not all that heavy.

_Probably punctured his intestines,_ House’s clinical mind supplied.

“House,” Wilson finally said, shakily.

“You’re OK,” House told him. “Little stab wound. You’re OK.”

“Hurts.” Wilson’s face was ghostly pale and lined with pain.

“I know.” Out of habit, House reached for his cell phone, before remembering it was gone. “Shit.”

House placed Wilson’s hands on the shirt. “Here,” he said softly. “Press down as much as you can. I have to call from the landline. Be right back.”

“House,” Wilson gasped again, tears springing to his eyes.

“Right back,” House repeated, painfully hauling himself to his feet.

He limped quickly to the bedroom, only to find that the cordless phone wasn’t in its base. House scanned the room. “Where the fuck is it?” he whispered.

He checked the bed, pulling the comforter up and tossing pillows aside. “Where the fuck is it?” he said, a bit louder this time.

He knew he needed to keep his head. The phone was there somewhere. He looked on the floor by the nightstand, then hobbled to the other side of the bed. Not there.

_Stay calm,_ House told himself. _He’s not gonna die of septic shock on the living room floor._

_No,_ he amended. _He’ll die in a couple days, in the hospital, because his shit leaked all over his abdominal cavity. Because you couldn’t find the fucking phone._

“Wilson!” House yelled. “Where’s the goddamn phone?”

He knew he shouldn’t be yelling. But he needed to yell at _someone._

House limp-hopped back to the living room and saw Wilson curled on his side, facing away from him. “Hey, Wilson,” he said as he turned and made for the kitchen. “Talk to me.”

House paused in the kitchen doorway and then spotted the phone, sitting on the counter by the sink. Right. That’s where Wilson had left it after House called him a few hours earlier—back when House’s biggest worry was snotty-nosed kids and their snotty parents.

He grabbed the phone and punched 911 as he moved back to Wilson. With brisk efficiency, he told the dispatcher he needed an ambulance at 221B Baker St….Deep abdominal stab wound…Possible shock…I’m a doctor…I have to hang up. He needs me.

Wilson was now vomiting the remains of Ling’s garden vegetables and shrimp onto the floor. House knelt beside him, rubbing his back as he retched.

When he stopped, House gently pushed him onto his back again. “Hey,” he said. “Lemme see.”

He moved Wilson’s hands and lifted the shirt away from the wound. Wilson’s whole belly was distended, and when House palpated the area he hissed in pain.

“Abdomen’s rigid,” House said.

Wilson bit his lip and gave a slight nod. “Peritonitis?” he said, barely above a whisper.

“I'm thinking yes,” House replied, replacing the shirt and reaching to grab Wilson’s stupid afghan from the back of the couch.

He wrapped it around Wilson’s shivering form, then stopped to put a hand in his hair. “Look at me,” House said, quietly but firmly. “You’re OK, Wilson. EMS is coming. We’re five minutes from the hospital.”

Wilson gave another little nod then closed his eyes. “Hey,” House said, rubbing his fingertips into Wilson’s scalp. “Stay with me…Say something annoying.”

Wilson’s eyes fluttered open, but his lips were trembling—with cold, or fear, or both, House didn’t know.

“You’re OK,” House said again. “Peritonitis is good. We’ll get you right into surgery. No annoying tests.”

Wilson couldn’t seem to form any words. “It’s OK,” House soothed, hearing the sirens. “See? They’re here. You’re gonna get the crazy-good pain meds now.”

Wilson closed his eyes, and House leaned in closer to whisper, “Be right back.”

He got to his feet to go flag down the EMTs. When he stepped into the hall, House saw that the front door was still propped open, the welcome sign still in place.

_A neon fucking advertisement to rob me and stab my best friend._

The EMTs were unloading as House arrived on the stoop. He waved and got their attention then quickly went back inside.

“They’re here,” House said needlessly, as he awkwardly dropped to his knees by Wilson’s side. His breathing was shallow and erratic now.

House used one hand to put pressure on the wound, and his other to brush some sweaty strands of hair from Wilson’s forehead. “It’s OK.” He felt stupid, repeating the same trite line over and over. But he didn’t know what else to do.

Two EMTs came in then, calling House “sir” and asking him to move aside. He told them he was a doctor, but they seemed unimpressed. He told them what happened, gave them what vitals he could. “Abdomen’s rigid and tender. Probable peritonitis. Just give him oxygen and let’s go.”

One of the EMTs looked at him for a moment then turned back to Wilson. “Sir,” he said, addressing House but otherwise giving all his attention to his patient. “If you’re going to ride with us, get ready. Put your shoes on.”

House looked down. He hadn’t realized…

Without another word, he grabbed his cane then went to the bedroom to get sneakers and dip into his extra stash of Vicodin—which, yes, was apparently necessary.

When House returned to the living room he saw that some of the neighbors had gathered in the hallway outside the apartment.

“Hey,” he said sharply, moving to the doorway. “Which one of you morons failed to close the front door after the kiddie witching hour?”

“Dr. House, what happened?” asked the woman from the apartment right above them.

“Dr. Wilson was stabbed by one of your trick-or-treaters,” he said bitterly. A collective gasp followed, and House wanted to clock every one of them.

Even though, in the back of his mind, a voice was telling him it wasn’t really their fault, was it? Wasn’t it _his_ fault for inciting a knife-wielding maniac?

Or…wasn’t it really Wilson’s fault for being stupid enough to open that door? For insisting that they open the door to strangers all evening long. For stepping in front of a fucking knife that was aimed for House.

He realized, with a start, that he was angry at Wilson.

He shook his head. “Get out of the way,” he said to his neighbors, his voice more weary than aggressive now. “They have to move him through here.”

House turned to see the EMTs securing Wilson on the stretcher, and he felt his gut twist. He’d found something reassuring in being the one taking care of Wilson, having his hands on him, feeling his pulse, seeing him breathe. Letting him go to hands that House didn’t necessarily trust…felt wrong.

But he had to. House gripped his cane tighter, just for something to hold onto, then followed Wilson out the door.

 

 

*******

 

 

House didn’t know how long he’d been sitting by Wilson’s ICU bed, watching him breathe. His leg was starting to protest, but he didn’t want to miss Wilson waking up because he’d gone for a stroll.

Wilson’s surgery to repair his perforated colon, and clear the infectious debris from his abdomen, had gone smoothly. Now he was on IV broad-spectrum antibiotics to hopefully ward off sepsis, plus the IV morphine that was keeping him knocked out. The NG tube was still in place to keep his stomach decompressed.

When they’d arrived at the hospital the only thing that had kept House from scrubbing in was Foreman’s threat to call security.

“One, you’re not a surgeon,” Foreman had pointed out, in an annoyingly reasonable manner. “Two, we don’t allow family in the OR.”

_Family?_ House had thought. _Since when are Wilson and I family?_

Foreman had leaned in and given House his “I understand” eyes. “House, if you try to push your way in there, I’ll have to have you escorted from the hospital. Just go to your office and wait it out there.”

“Why are you even here this late?” House had demanded. “You really have no life, do you?”

If he was going to do as Foreman said, he needed to slip in an insult first.

In the end, it had been for the best, of course. House would’ve been an obstacle in the OR—even he could admit that. And the police were eager to talk with him anyway.

Bonnie and Clyde, it turned out, had been to several homes that night. Since they’d come around late, most people hadn’t let them in. In a couple other cases, the visit ended with the little kid getting candy, and nothing more.

But at two places, they’d made out a lot better, leaving their victims—an elderly couple and two young women—tied up.

House had been more than a little offended that the punks pegged him and Wilson as vulnerable enough to manage. “What, the domestic partners aren’t gonna put up a fight?” he’d bitched to one of the cops.

The cop had shrugged. Maybe they just got bolder as the night went on, he told House. Maybe they'd peered through the windows at some point that night and seen House limping around. Who knew?

_Who knew?_ House thought, looking at Wilson’s chest rise and fall. He was getting tired of waiting this out. He needed Wilson to wake up.

Then, as if his neediness sensor had gone off, Wilson began to stir. House was at his bedside in an instant.

Wilson let out a soft little moan as his eyes slowly blinked open.

“Hey,” House said, laying his hand on Wilson’s. “I’m here.”

Wilson turned his head a bit. His cracked lips parted and he made a sound that seemed like “House.”

“Yeah,” House replied. “You’re in the ICU. Open surgery for the colon perforation. You’re gonna be fine.”

Wilson blinked a couple more times before his eyes fell closed. “Well,” House whispered. “Thought you’d be more excited than that.”

He squeezed Wilson’s hand just a little before letting go.

 

 

*******

 

 

“How’s that delicious clear-liquid diet?” House inquired, opening the Styrofoam container on his lap to reveal a Reuben and fries.

“House,” Wilson said wearily, “you know I can’t eat that.”

House feigned confusion. “It’s for me. Thought you’d enjoy the vicarious experience of watching my pleasure.” He paused to leer. “Wait’ll you see what I’ve got for dessert.”

Wilson sighed. “Yeah. I’m feeling pretty horny right now.”

“You, you, you,” House groused, using both hands to lift the messy sandwich. “What about my needs?”

“Sorry.” A flicker of amusement passed over Wilson’s face—followed by a small grimace when he apparently shifted too quickly for his lower abdomen’s comfort.

Wilson had been moved to a regular room after a couple days in the ICU. He was doing well, House knew. But that didn’t stop him from noticing and cataloging every potential sign of trouble in Wilson’s face, body, voice and movement.

House chewed his food thoughtfully before speaking again. “You do actually owe me that apology, you know,” he said mildly.

Wilson furrowed his brow. “Um, how so?”

House paused. He really didn’t want to get Wilson worked up. But he'd been behaving well for several days in a row now, and he felt like a dam about to burst.

“You could’ve died,” House said, matter-of-factly. “And that is totally unacceptable.”

Wilson just looked at him for a moment, then gave a little nod. “OK…In my defense, though, the guy with the knife bears some responsibility.”

House nodded back. “True. But I think we need to establish a protocol here.”

Wilson raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“In the future, all knives and other weapons aimed in our vicinity should preferentially wound me.” House pointed a french fry at Wilson. “You should stay out of it.”

Wilson opened his mouth then paused, looking off to the side. “I was going to say there’s almost no chance of us being in that situation again. But then, you’re you, sooo…”

“Exactly,” House said, grabbing a couple more fries. “So that’s the rule. You are not allowed to step in the path of sharp objects intended for me.”

“That’s so sweet,” Wilson said, with a vacant Stepford wives’ smile. “But no, I can’t promise you that.”

House suddenly felt more serious. “Wilson. What you did is not OK.”

“What _I_ did? All I did was react. You told a guy with a knife to fuck off.”

House shrugged. “I was just being me.”

Wilson so looked like he wanted to put his hands on his hips. “And I was just being me.”

They had a short stare-down before Wilson’s eyes softened. “I didn’t want him to get your watch, either,” he told House.

House looked down and cleared his throat. He did not want to go there, but he knew Wilson would drag him there if he had to. As if on cue, Wilson spoke again.

“It’s OK to admit that something, or someone, is important to you, House.”

And of course the sneaky bitch wasn’t just referring to Kutner. House scowled. “Thanks for the permission.”

Wilson looked down at his hands, and House’s eyes fell there, too. He could still see Wilson’s hands pressed against the blood-stained t-shirt, and his wide eyes, so dark in his deathly white face. Wilson had no right to scare him like that. Even on Halloween.

House took a deep breath, keeping his eyes on Wilson’s hands. “Apparently, the subtlety of what I just said got lost on you. When someone is important to me, I request that they avoid being stabbed, shot, pushed into traffic—stuff like that.”

He glanced up to see Wilson watching him, with that annoying little smile that appeared whenever House expressed feelings. Which was happening with disturbing frequency in recent months.

Wilson nodded. “Coincidentally, I have the same request.”

_Touché._ House couldn’t deny that death-defying stunts were more his thing than Wilson’s.

He blew a breath out of his mouth. “Could be asking a lot,” he told Wilson. “Since I’m me, and all.”

Wilson just looked at him. House could see his eyelids getting heavier, but he knew Wilson would struggle to stay awake till he got the answer he wanted.

“OK,” House relented. “I’ll give it a shot… _Oh,_ bad word choice.”

Wilson blinked a couple times and smiled sleepily. House put his food aside and limped to the bedside.

“So,” he said, casually brushing some strands of hair from Wilson’s forehead. “I think it’s clear now that you are really awful at celebrating Halloween. Maybe next year we should do that go-out-to-dinner trick your wives were so fond of."

Wilson fought to keep his eyes open. “Unh-uh. We should stay in,” he mumbled. “Just us.”

House leaned in a bit closer. “Private costume party, maybe? I do have this vision of you as Marie Antoinette. You can feed me cake then give me head.”

But it seemed Wilson had missed that gem. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing softly through his mouth. It was a good sound, House thought. So he decided to stay where he was and listen a while longer.

 

 

_\--End_


End file.
